Redundancy Is Key
by Insufferabler R
Summary: Crow and vulture preference aside, she didn't seem to be as trying of a company as expected. Then again, looks can be deceiving. [AxelElizabethSwann]
1. Prologue

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**Redundancy Is Key**

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Perhaps this would a good time to mention that if you're allergic to sarcasm, this might not be the best story for you. :) Otherwise, please enjoy!

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**Prologue **

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I hate rain.

When wind splits the sky's veins into a downpour of cold, clear blood, I can hardly keep myself awake long enough to enjoy the much-raved about scenery. All I find pleasurable during such times is the _riveting _activity of lounging about like the decomposing corpse that I, apparently, am, wasting the precious time of my _in_existenceon sleep.

I put the 'hopeless' in 'hopeless romantic', could you tell?

To my defense, however, I would like to point an accusing finger at the group of happily deceased who I happen to share living quarters with. I'm not certain that the muse visits half the populace I am _blessed _with enjoying the company of. If by some randomly-granted, heavenly miracle you have the astonishing luck of gauging a response or reaction from these _lively _individuals, all you're really getting is a monosyllabic snippet of an answer or a mere, imperceptible narrowing of the eyes.

Then again, in certain cases (a.k.a. Demyx and Larxene), I'd much rather prefer holding their exceptionally well-functioning vocal chords in my hand rather than leaving them in the throat of each respective owner. The muse, as I have so kindly baptized the simple concept of communication, seems to overly enjoy the company of this duo…at my expense, no less.

But my lack of sentimentality and abundance of charismatically-challenged comrades aside, I would still love to know which bloody deity I pissed off enough to deserve such a cruel punishment; mainly, my morning greetings being delivered in the form of obnoxious pitter-pattering against the closed window. That's right; it was raining.

Needless to say, I wasn't inclined to do much moving past opening my eyes.

"Axel."

Not inclined, but apparently would, anyway. Bad things tend to come around at the most inopportune of moments.

"What d'you want?"

"You."

The response was a feminine, sarcastic, and openly hostile alto, which I could easily identify as Larxene. It really was entirely too bad that I've never lacked testosterone in my system; otherwise, warning bells pertaining to the fact that Larxene doesn't _want _anything—besides inflicting large amounts of torture on poor, unsuspecting males—would start going off rather promptly. But as the situation stood, my mind was being purposefully quiet about the large amounts of _wrong, _sarcasticanswers that perhaps shouldn't leave the _sanctity_—as if—of my mouth, and which, unfortunately enough, I was starting to formulate.

Example:

"Took you long enough, Larxie."

And then, I just _had _to follow up with the truly moronic action of petting the mattress in invitation.

Yes, indeed. My pitiful _in_existence was dangling off a _very _large cliff, suspended by a _very _thin piece of string.

Then there was also the issue that my eyes drooped closed, and I couldn't coax them open despite all the begging and whining my brain was doing. And, of course, can't quite forget about my state of dress—or undress, to be exact—under the plethora of blankets that didn't quite allow for much movement in case I really was going to be attacked; which, for the record, I wasn't doubting.

Larxene, however, seemed to be in a rather forgiving disposition, opting instead to drop onto an armchair next to my bed with a tired exhalation.

"You're lucky I have a headache," she pronounced dryly, fatigue easily lacing the words.

I was tempted to agree but kept my tongue. Prying open one ocular with tremendous difficulty, I shot her a weary glance.

"Well what did you expect, prancing into a young man's living quarters with such provocative statements?"

She regarded me wordlessly for a moment before promptly throwing a shoe in my general direction. _My own _shoe, mind you.

"Can I help you?" I bit out mock-politely, regarding the offending object on my mattress in an irritated manner.

"No, but apparently you can help Xemnas."

"With what?" I inquired testily. I was obviously not petitioning for my 'sulk-about-the-rain' time to be cut so dismally short.

"I bet you're just dying to find out!"

"I fail to see how the allegation of dying applies to me, seeing as I'm but a well-preserved corpse," I stated modestly. Oh the lengths I was willing to travel simply to displease Larxene. She has, after all, screamed at me upon numerous occasions about how she loathes my utilizing her words out of context.

And, as expected, my quip didn't fail to promote a scowl from the blonde.

"Do you _want _me to arrange the end of your _in_existence?"

I turned my—finally—open eyes to the closed window. The rain was still beating relentlessly against the hazy glass, sliding in fractured drops down the smooth surface. The offer was actually not without its appeal, admittedly; but, I wasn't about to admit that to Larxene any time soon. Seriously, the woman would happily oblige if I gave her any sort of verbal assent…or even if I didn't, I daresay.

"That depends," I settled on instead. "What does Xemnas want?"

"How do you look upon babysitting duty?"

"Not favorably," I scowled.

"Good." A condescending grin spread over her otherwise stone-hard features. "'Cuz that's what you're going to be busy doing: babysitting."

Have you ever heard the saying 'when life throws you lemons, make lemonade'? Yeah, well…I tend to disagree. That, perhaps, was exactly the reason for my next grand performance, which, admittedly, would have been much more mortifying if only I hadn't repeatedly gone through these same actions in the past.

Eh, at least I didn't have to run into Larxene this time around; she was already present and well aware.

So without further ado…

Picture: an irritated-looking Axel (me) stalking out of his room in an indignant manner…in nothing but his boxers…with a comforter around his waist for company.

Regrettably, I've never had the chance to glance at myself from the sidelines, but I have been informed—in no uncertain terms, by Larxene (bless her _in_existent heart)—that my actions, oftentimes, make for quite the entertaining scenery. And I couldn't help but guess, for some _odd _reason, that perhaps _such _was what she was referencing.

And I was going to go impress Xemnas with my deep and thoughtful argument pertaining to my maturity level and usefulness to the Organization in a sad—and probably soon-to-be failed—attempt at skiving babysitting duty.

Fat chance of _that_ ever happening, let me assure you. (And, apparently, for good reason.)

Now imagine: Axel (me) stalking _back _to his room, huffing, puffing, and stomping his feet in a perfect image of a teenage tantrum…_still_ in only his boxers…and _still_ clutching his blanket for company.

It's safe to say that Larxene was having a field day with this.

Getting back safely to my bed, if only a little ruffled as far as male pride and dignity are concerned, I settled for glaring at the floor in a half-hearted fashion.

"If you say one word," I warned my immediate company, trailing off for dramatic effect. Perhaps my maturity has been suffering for as long as I can remember, but over dramatization has yet to fail me.

"Wasn't even considering it."

Smart woman.

"So who's the lucky child?" I finally scrounged up half a brain to ask. Maybe I was making a bigger deal out of this miniscule amount of ennui than was absolutely necessary.

"Elizabeth Swan."

Then again, maybe not.

"Do _not_, under any circumstances, tell me that she's the chick from Port Royal."

I didn't receive any verbal reply in agreement, but I think the sadistic smirk, which I was promptly granted—courtesy of Larxene—sufficed quite nicely.

"All you're required to do is hide her somewhere…anywhere; give Luxord a breather, so to speak."

"Care to elaborate?" Not that I was particular pumped about hearing much else. One such depressing piece of information a day is quite enough, thank you.

"You know hero wannabes, Axel! If she's gone, Sora and his gang of happy-go-lucky morons will continue running around the Port, searching for her; especially after pouts and puppy eyes from her beloved." She sighed, shaking her head at the unnecessary amount of sentimentality our 'wannabe heroes' were prone to displaying. "Luxord needs an extra seventy-two hours to set up. That's all that's needed: three days."

"Set up?"

"Do you absolutely _need _to know?"

"If I said 'yes', would that happen to coax an answer?"

"No…but truthfully, I have no idea." She snorted, rising to her feet. "Since when has Luxord shared any ideas with the rest of us, simple-minded beings?"

"Point," I admitted. "Think he'll be nice enough to let me watch…after seventy-two hours of torture?"

The proposal wasn't, frankly, all that appealing, but curiosity tends to fuel most of my more _brilliant _ideas. Either that, or morbid fascination in sadistic bents.

"If you'll survive."

And with that, I was left in my room, yet again, absolutely alone. A rather disconcerting feeling of dread settled over me in a matter of seconds, post the parting, to the point of pain. Keeping one, Elizabeth Swan, occupied didn't sound like much of an easy task. And I was _not,_ just for the record, going to do charity work with the kittens for the woman's sake. That was absolutely out of the question!

Not that she comes across as the type to care for the kittens—probably has more of a preference towards crows and vultures, if I were to take a guess.

Perhaps I'd stuff her in the nearest available chest and carry her around like the _treasure _we all know her to be. Heh, I'd probably have to do that no matter what. Because, disregarding what Larxene wants the male populace to be convinced of, women _always _use their nails as a last resort. And I, thank you very much, happen, for one, to want to keep all my skin.

Complaining, however, wasn't going to do much. All that was left was the appealing option of earplugs and knight armor for protection's sake…hopefully covering my testosterone source as well as the rest of the body.

Ah, yes, I was _in _for it.

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**Author's Note:**

Political correctness? Phht, who needs it? Hopefully, I didn't have the female readers too offended as of yet. But seeing as I'm of that gender myself, I'm entitled to the slants, no:) I don't know what prompted me for the pairing, but I think it was mostly the fact that…well…I was going for something different. With any luck, you won't find the duo of Elizabeth Swan and Axel too eccentric ;) Tell me what you think! Hate it? Love it? Think the sarcasm should be brought down fifty percent? I actually enjoy criticism!

-Thank you for the time.

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	2. Wretched to Unbearable

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**Redundancy Is Key**

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By request, the sarcasm has not been cut back one bit. ;)

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**Wretched to Unbearable **

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Over dramatization serves no purpose when dealing with a reserved individual such as Xemnas. I begged, whined, feigned cardiac arrest, and even fake fainted due to—just as fake—internal bleeding, but all of my theatrics went, apparently, unnoticed, and I still landed myself on my gummi ship, in a not so pleasant disposition, with a headache, and a grievous stab to my pride.

As much as I would have liked to blame this particularly unpleasant predicament on one irritating female by the name of Elizabeth Swann, my brain decided to direct the annoyance towards Xemnas instead.

Homicide was certainly one of the more prevalent thoughts in my twisted excuse of a mind—needless to say—but, rather unfortunately, I had no idea how to go about killing a well-preserved corpse. Impaling wouldn't work. I've tried that on Demyx before, and all I got was large amounts of accusatory squealing from the blonde in question and a long lecture from the scientific wonder that is more commonly referred to as Vexen.

You see, our establishment of _rambunctious _dead people actually follows a rather strictly outlined set of rules. One such rule is the prohibition of causing serious bodily harm to a fellow Organization member. That law of sorts, however, was rather promptly eliminated when Xemnas decided to utilize his highly acclaimed brilliance (which has been nigh and dead for some time now) and figured out that we, the happily deceased, are more than slightly repulsed by each other. I, however, had the _tremendous _pleasure of stabbing Demyx _before_ the untimely demise of that regulation and still enjoyed the punishment.

In my opinion the Superior overreacted. I wasn't aiming for anything fatal; I just embedded my chakram in the blonde's shoulder because he was being a nuisance and I didn't particularly feel like self-combusting...alright, so I deserved the damn punishment! I admit it! Happy?

The second rule—even though it's not the only other regulation by any means—of our _lively _community (this is actually where my previous begging and feinting comes in) is the disallowance of using darkness tunnels as a means of transportation unless you are teleporting by yourself. In other words, any third party present, use the damn ship. And speaking of third parties, Elizabeth was, rather obviously, considered one.

And that brings me back to the aforementioned predicament: a ship, a joystick, and no knowledge on how to utilize either.

That's right ladies and gentlemen; the one and only, strikingly handsome, skilled in many an art, and unforgettable (modesty was never my forte) Axel didn't know how to manipulate technology. To my defense, however, I would like to say that nobody's perfect. As cliché as that phrase is, I must admit it's true. I must also admit, however, that I'm pretty close to breaking that convention…but that's another conversation for another day…

For another _far _off day. Seeing as I'm sure such provocative proclamations in front of Ms. Swann will not earn my male genitalia any mercy.

As perfect as I may be, however, (just because Ms. Swann would appreciate staying in denial concerning the matter doesn't mean I can't proclaim the truth!) I still had the problem of setting this unnecessarily gigantic piece of metal in motion. Common sense, if I had any, would probably dictate pressing the large, green button labeled 'START' to accomplish the task at hand, but I never did brag about my tremendously tight grasp on that elusive concept of so-called 'logic' and therefore was rather attracted to the larger, red-colored, glowing button right next to the aforementioned green one instead. In fact, not just attracted…I activated it. Pity I wasn't informed about the consequences of such a rash decision beforehand.

The engines came to life and the ship lurched forward suddenly before halting once again. Needless to say, not having fastened the seatbelt hanging off the nearby wall, I flew out, face forward, into the control panel. As enraged as I was, however, I must admit that my run in with the said control panel was a rather educational experience as I learned two _very _valuable lessons. First off: seatbelts aren't installed for decorative purposes; they're actually meant to be used. And second: the red button of doom that my brash finger decided—of its own accord, of course—to press, was not as nameless as I originally thought. It had a nice, pretty given name written out in white right under the damn thing… 'ACCELERATION.'

I think my mouth got as far as forming a soon-to-be 'oh-oh' before I was rather rudely interrupted by the sound of my own head connecting with the back wall, which I was unceremoniously thrown against after the ship decided to suddenly lurch forward once again. This time, though, it didn't stop after the initial push but kept with the momentum, increasing its speed at an alarming rate as I barely registered the quickly moving scenery outside the circular, half-assed excuse for a window.

Don't ask; because, I wouldn't be able to explain exactly _how _I managed to crawl back to the controls even if I tried. The only thing that I _can _say, however, is that I got there just in time to swerve this unnecessarily oversized, metal monster away from one of the towers of Castle Oblivion, which it was, ever so determinedly, flying towards. The machine was contemplating suicide, I swear!

Ahem, anyway…dramatics aside, I was rather pleased with myself at having narrowly evaded my _second _death. Can you blame me?

Not that I was betting on my survival or anything. I did have seventy-two hours of babysitting ahead of my ever-so lucky persona. Managing to control the ship was child's play and rather faded in comparison to my upcoming deathtrap.

Sighing heavily, I turned on the familiar-looking radar display, which erupted into a flurry of bleeps and vibrant colors. Searching through the command screen I was able, with no particular headache (thankfully), find the accursed Planet with its unwanted _treasure _which my path was set towards. At the Northern edge of the monitor, in large green letters, was written that one title which I had the feeling I would never like to see again…if I survived long enough, that is.

Port Royal.

Directing the ship by the lead of instructions that were running down the glowing screen, I managed to find my destination with minimal amount of effort. Not that I would have missed the bloody World even if I so wanted to…which I did, admittedly.

The place screamed with the need for modern ramifications due to the flurry of old dresses, cobble stone streets, and—oh, god forbid! Was that really?—wooden ships which swam into my line of vision the closer I got. The whole dismal scenery was shrouded with gray clouds and angry streaks of barely perceptible lightning, which were uncharacteristically faded in comparison to what I've had the pleasure of witnessing in The World that Never Was. Oh, and here's what really took the cake: it was raining.

It was _raining_!

Trust my luck to move from wretched to unbearable.

But seeing as floating above the Planet wasn't going to accomplish much of anything besides perhaps running out of fuel and crashing—not that I was quite convinced an accident was avoidable even _with _a proper amount of fuel still in the tank—I decided to direct the ship to a landing at the docks—which was, as I later found, a mistake.

Missing my aim by a good thirteen meters and _conveniently _forgetting that the brakes were still available to me, I allowed—with not much of a choice on my part, mind you—the ship to descend, full speed, straight into the dark waters of the sea.

Now, let's analyze that situation, shall we?

A pyromaniac…in cold water…am I the only one who finds something _very _wrong with that picture?

Impacting the water was, admittedly, not the most pleasant of experiences I can recall living through. My seat rocked forward, practically making it impossible for me to twist away from the control panel which dug into my stomach as the result of the collision, effectively pinning me in-between itself and my seat. I was spared, however, the tremendous _pleasure _of staying in such a position much longer due to the water which quickly found its way through the ship's mechanisms and inside the main chamber. My metallic acquaintance slowed to a crawl due to the added weight, allowing me to finally wretch myself free of the control panel and the chair.

Now, however, I was faced with a much larger issue. The salty liquid was filling up the compartment rather quickly, and I, obviously, was still inside it.

Do pardon my lack of enthusiasm at the prospect of drowning, won't you?

Indeed, I was up and about the ship, searching for an exit the moment my mind caught up to the events, consequences, and disturbing implications. Thankfully, my eyes soon landed on the sad excuse of a window, which alerted me to the fact that judging by the up-flowing current, I was continuing to sink. Trudging over to it through the, now, water-covered floor of the cabin, I managed to wretch it open.

The seawater made its way into the ship immediately through the new opening, and it took all of my strength to squeeze past the current and into the sea. Gulping down as much oxygen as my lung capacity allowed, I plunged out of the destroyed vessel and began my arduous journey towards the surface. Chanting a quick Eulogy for the poor piece of metal that I was leaving behind, I was successful in breaking the aforementioned surface, much to my relief, before doing something as embarrassing as feinting from the lack of air.

Not that the face that greeted me at the docks was any more welcome than sweet oblivion.

She was wet, she was scowling, and her arms were crossed over her chest in the most typical of huffy mannerisms. Her hair was in disarray, and her dress looked more crumpled than etiquette would have perhaps expected, but it was most certainly her.

Elizabeth Swann.

Now I really wasn't so sure who I was supposed to be chanting a Eulogy for: the ship…or myself.

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**Author's Note: **

Please do pardon the lack of updates! I was very much busy with final exams in school and my conservatory. I promise, this kind of prolonged wait will not be forced upon you again ;) I hope that this chapter was no less enjoyable, though there has yet to be interaction between Axel and Elizabeth! This was sort of a fill in, meant simply to entertain, not containing much plot; once again, do pardon. The next chapter will, hopefully, come sooner and be longer. Ah, yes, and include lots of Axel and Elizabeth :) I would still adore to hear your thoughts, however, if you aren't all that angry with me as of yet!

-Thanks.

**bubblegum x princess:** Sarcasm is the way I live and breath…no, it's definitely not going to be cut back:) Admittedly, Elizabeth annoys me just as much as she seems to irritate you; however, she has a temper. I can always embellish on that and cut back on the sentimentality…in fact, that's kind of my plan!

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